(no subject)
He looked dirtier than usual. He probably hadn't showered in days. It didn't matter. Actually it probably made me want him more. His hair was greasy, dyed a few colors, and in his face. He was drunk. Stoned. Pathetic. He didn't make eye contact with me. When everyone hugged me when he walked in, he looked the other way. All night he avoided me. When he was sitting in his car in the garage alone, where we had smoked, he made up bullshit conversation. He tried to sound smart. I just wanted to grab him and force my tongue down his throat. It was like he realized he took advantage of me at such a vulnerable part of my life, knew I was better than him now, understood I had changed for the better and he was the same--or even worse. But it didn't change the fact I wanted him. I wanted his dirty hands to climb their way up my shirt and tug at my jeans.
That's the thing. He always made me feel so dirty, so degraded. I guess that's what I liked.
That's the thing. He always made me feel so dirty, so degraded. I guess that's what I liked.